Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [13]
The kite, taking advantage of this lapse in concentration, swallow-dived to the ground.
`You let it crash!' wailed the boy, racing after it. `You're supposed to keep the line tight. Come on, pay attention, make it fly again!'
Florence woke up from her doze with a start. Next to her, using the arm rest of the wheelchair for leverage, Miranda was scrambling to her feet. Florence heard her say in a low voice trembling with fury, `You cheat, you bloody despicable liar, how can you live with yourself?'
Florence brightened at once. Well, well, this was a turn-up for the books. She'd never heard Miranda have a go at anyone before.
Peering around Miranda's quivering form, Florence eyed with interest the object of her rage. Tall, dark-haired and rather good-looking - if currently a bit shell-shocked - hmm, not bad at all. In excellent shape, too, from what she could see.
One of Miranda's hapless ex-boyfriends, Florence guessed. Presumably one who'd done the dirty on her. Well, no wonder she was upset.
`Look, I can explain-' he began, but Miranda held up both hands to stop him.
`Oh, please don't, we already know what a great actor you are.' She spat the words out with contempt. `Tell me, is that why you and your wife split up? Did she find out how you were spending your days and kick you out? Does your son know he has a con-artist for a father?' She longed to yell the accusations at the top of her voice but the boy was only yards away. For his sake, Miranda managed to control herself.
The man, looking startled, followed the direction of hergaze. Turning back to Miranda, he said with a placatory half-smile, `I promise you, I really can explain. For a start, I'm not married. And Eddie isn't my son, he's-'
`Daddy, come and help me!' howled the boy, now firmly entangled in the kite's line. `You're wasting time - Mum said we had to be home by four.'
`You're damn right you can explain,' Miranda hissed, kicking the brakes off Florence's chair and yanking her in the direction of the path. `You can explain why you take my money and eat my prawn sandwiches when you clearly earn more than I do.' She was flinging the words over her shoulder as she jolted the wheelchair over the uneven ground. `And you can explain why you drive a BMW,' she bellowed. `Because you make me sick!'
`Wait,' he called after her, but further up the hill his son was yelling for him and Miranda was by this time scooting downhill with the wheelchair at a rate of knots.
Relieved to reach the bottom in one piece, Florence said sympathetically, `The best-looking ones are always the biggest bastards.'
She patted Miranda's thin arm, sensing it was best not to mention the two rather good Waterford crystal wine glasses they had left at the top of the hill. `What happened, he forgot to mention he was married?'
Poor, impulsive Miranda, she deserved better than that. Still, if she wanted to impress a man, she really should learn to cook, Florence privately felt. When you invited someone round for dinner, you couldn't expect them to be too bowled over by a prawn sandwich.
Chapter 6
Chloe, flicking without much enthusiasm through a magazine in the doctor's waiting room at ten to nine on Monday morning, came across an article detailing the break-up of some minor celebrity' s marriage.
In the accompanying photograph the woman - an actress in her late thirties - was looking suitably devastated in full make-up and a short clinging dress that showed off… well, practically everything.
The article was headlined: EVERY NIGHT I CRY MYSELF TO SLEEP.
Lucky you, thought Chloe, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion. I cry every night but I still can't sleep.
How much could she seriously be expected to sympathise, anyway, with a woman who clearly didn't cry much at all? She was wearing mascara, wasn't she? Her eyes weren't permanently swollen like a frog's. Furthermore, she had a teeny-weeny waist.
Hating her, Chloe threw the magazine back on to the pile. She shifted on her uncomfortable moulded plastic chair - moulded for someone